BEG to LHR
by Hay Bails
Summary: After two years, Mycroft brings Sherlock home. Can be read on its own, or as a continuation of 'His Heart.'


For Kallie01.

. . .

"So, my friend. Now it's just you and me."

The man spoke to the prisoner in Serbian, with the flawless, rounded vowels and percussive consonants of one who had lived in the country his whole life.

Not that the prisoner was fooled. He would know that voice anywhere.

The prisoner listened as the man took his feet off the table where they rested, stood from his chair, and began to walk toward the spot where the prisoner was chained.

"You have no idea the trouble it took to find you," the man continued conversationally, relishing the taste of the perfect Slavic pronunciation on his tongue.

A drop of blood from the whip ran down the prisoner's spine. He forced back a shiver.

The prisoner was only slightly startled when the man grabbed a fistful of his long, matted hair and yanked his head upward. He was less startled when the man leaned in close to his ear, and began to whisper to him in glorious English.

"Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."

Mycroft Holmes released his grip on his brother's greasy, neglected hair and straightened up.

"Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

Under the hair that blanketed his face and despite all of his wounds, Sherlock Holmes smiled.

. . .

It was a three-hour flight from Belgrade to London. Mycroft discarded his Serbian military jacket, dropping it onto the floor in disdain. He buckled himself into his seat, and listened to the comfortable hum of the engines of the Airbus.

Once Mycroft had infiltrated the compound, it had been almost ridiculously simple to sneak Sherlock out. Under the guise of "acting upon orders," he had produced a forged note authorizing Sherlock's transfer to another facility in eastern Ukraine – far enough away to warrant a trip to the airport. He had knocked out the Serbian driver with a touch of well-placed chloroform, and together he and Sherlock had stumbled their way onto a plane that most certainly would _not_ be travelling to Ukraine.

The Airbus was, of course, empty, per the instructions of the British government. Seeing Sherlock's eyes shift around the plane nervously, Mycroft felt intensely glad he had given that order.

"Sit down, brother," Mycroft said in a surprisingly gentle voice.

After the dash from the car to the plane, Mycroft was rather amazed that Sherlock could still stand at all. His wounds, while mostly superficial, were still enough to cause rather significant blood loss. Sherlock swayed in the aisle.

He gave his brother a defiant look before collapsing onto the seat in as dignified a manner as possible - then sitting back up with a hiss as his marred shoulders touched the back cushion.

Mycroft pretended to look out the window.

Sherlock settled gingerly back onto the chair as the plane began to move across the tarmac. Mycroft listened to him rustle softly for a few minutes, trying to settle into his seat. He frowned – his little brother was in more pain than he had thought.

The plane picked up speed as it hit the runway.

Sherlock attempted quite valiantly not to wince as his back was pressed into the seat once more. Mycroft caught the wince in his periphery all the same.

Once the plane was safely in the air, he took pity.

"You were whipped," he said quietly and matter-of-factly.

"Transport," Sherlock muttered through gritted teeth, trying to brush it off. He could feel another drop of blood caressing his vertebrae.

The older Holmes sighed. Delicately, he lifted the arm rest between them.

"May I?" he asked, touching the hem of Sherlock's sleeve.

Sherlock scooted forward a few inches, nodding. Stiffly, he removed the jacket he had been given to leave the compound in. Like Mycroft's costume, it was discarded onto the floor. He wore no shirt underneath. With only the tiniest hesitation, he turned his back to his brother.

In the harsh light of the plane's cabin, Mycroft studied the damage done to his younger brother for the first time. He sucked in a breath.

"Oh, Sherlock," he said, his normally steady voice cracking.

Blood seeped from still-open wounds, about half of which could have been created by a whip. Scars and scabs abounded from blades, and what Mycroft could only assume had been some kind of torch. His entire upper back was demolished.

"I…" he cleared his throat. "I hadn't realized the extent."

Sherlock chuckled drily.

"Obviously." He tilted his head back. "I'll live. They made sure of that."

Mycroft frowned.

"This plane is… not as well-equipped as I had initially thought. There are painkillers, but nothing hospital-grade."

"I'm sure whatever you have will help," Sherlock said, turning back to face his brother. "Please," he added, grinding out the word as if it was absolutely filthy.

Mycroft pressed the call button.

An attendant came within moments, bearing a basic first-aid kit.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, reaching across Sherlock to take the kit from her and dismissing her with a glance. He opened the kit and eyed the tiny bottle of antiseptic with a frown. He picked it up and opened it, and poured some onto a cotton swab.

Incredibly gently, he began to cleanse his brother's back, focusing on the still-open wounds. Sherlock closed his eyes – whether in pain or exhaustion, Mycroft didn't know.

"You don't have to do that," the younger man said.

"Somebody does, and I'm sure you and I both would rather it were me."

Sherlock saw the sense in that. He nodded. Better Mycroft than one of his noisy assistants.

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Mycroft to be satisfied with his work, but neither of them minded. Sherlock relished the gentle touch. It was something he received only rarely, even before he had gone east.

Mycroft finished with the liquid and placed the bottle back into the first aid kit. The cotton swabs he discarded into the airline's sick bag. The attendant came to pick up both. Mycroft kept a few gauze pads, which he taped over the worst of the open wounds. He reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out a bottle of drugstore painkillers.

Sherlock took two and sighed as his older brother finished patching him up.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Mycroft nodded.

Another minute passed before Sherlock's head began to droop. He refused to lean back against the seat again, however, with how much pain it had caused him last time.

Mycroft saw this, and came to a quick solution.

"Come here," he said, taking his younger brother's arm and guiding him down to lay somewhat awkwardly across his legs. He made sure that Sherlock lay on his stomach. "Sleep."

Sherlock, for his part, seemed unconcerned with the awkward position. He relaxed almost instantly. His matted raven hair fell around Mycroft's thighs.

"My…" he muttered.

"Steady," Mycroft muttered, threading a hand through his brother's hair. "I'm right here."

"I know," Sherlock said in a tiny, trusting voice. Despite his wounds and the pain he was in, Sherlock's breathing evened out. In a few moments he was asleep.

Mycroft's heart softened at the sight of the small, bony thing curled up in his lap.

"Oh, Sherlock," he whispered. He carefully leaned forward and placed a kiss on his younger brother's head. "It's time to come home."

Mycroft sat back up and looked out the window. A small smile graced his lips.

The sun was rising over London.


End file.
